


But I'll Be Close Behind

by zesulin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: CW: Death, CW: alcohol, CW: mentions of suicide/attempt, M/M, This is sad but happy i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zesulin/pseuds/zesulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins to dawn on him, horrifically, that he doesn't remember. That beautiful face and that fiery passion he once recalled is beginning to fade, as if there is a thick fog between them. And as he thinks on this further, he consideres that he doesn't remember his voice, either. The way he looked when he smiled. The way he looked disgusted with him the night before he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I'll Be Close Behind

**Author's Note:**

> From gingerfoutly's prompt/post: imagine Grantaire somehow surviving the revolution and he spends the rest of his life painting/sculpting Enjolras. As time goes by he realizes he’s beginning to forget what e looks like, which devastates him. He keeps trying to recreate his image, but he can’t get it right, because R just can’t remember what e looks like.

His hand falters as his pencil meets the paper. It's been nearly twenty years since he woke up in the broken wine shop, twenty years since he saw all that he loved, the personification of beauty and strength in the world slumped against the wall, as if pinned, crucified against it. Twenty years since he tried, really, really tried, to drown himself in drink and failed. And twenty years spent drawing, drawing, drawing, sculpting, painting, replicating that face, his muse, over and over again. But now in his old age (perhaps he is not so terribly old, but he feels it in his hands, once fluid and flexible, now stiff and weak) his memory of that man, that statue come to life, that Adonis on Earth (but he thinks, even Sappho herself could not speaks enough of him) has began to fade. It started a long while ago, he supposes. He'd never get the nose right, or perhaps the eyes were too thin, the lips not round enough, the chin too sharp. 

 

It begins to dawn on him, horrifically, that he doesn't remember. That beautiful face and that fiery passion he once recalled is beginning to fade, as if there is a thick fog between them. And as he thinks on this further, he considers that he doesn't remember his voice, either. The way he looked when he smiled. The way he looked disgusted with him the night before he died.

The pencil clatters to the floor and the sound feels deafening. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember a damn thing, only that there was someone he loved once, and he can't fucking remember their face. He feels like bursting into tears, falling upon the floor and holding himself until the pain subsides, but what is there to live for without the sun? His hands are shaking, the world spinning around him, and he needs a drink, he needs to sleep.

And he doesn't feel the whiskey when it burns it's way down his throat. Better to feel numb than pain. Better to drink and forget it all.

\--

It's said that the old artist who lived by himself died during the night. It's said that the window was left open, and he drank too much. The chill of the night is supposedly what killed him, and supposing, in your sleep is the best way to go. 

But they say they saw two men leaving the apartment early in the morning. They say there was a tall, beautiful, blonde-haired fellow holding the hand of a shorter, peaceful looking man with dark, curly hair. They say that he smiled up at the beautiful man, his eyes shining, and he himself, though he might have been homely, was absolutely radiant. They say they were gone once the sun peeked out from behind soft violet clouds, golden light striking them for a split second before they were gone from view.


End file.
